


Intuition

by DesireeArmfeldt



Category: due South
Genre: Episode Tag, Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-19 15:48:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4752041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesireeArmfeldt/pseuds/DesireeArmfeldt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Mountie-on-the-Bounty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intuition

**Author's Note:**

> Look! I posted a thing!

Having already disrupted her training schedule to come to our aid and foil an international crime in progress, Sgt. Thorn kindly takes the _Bounty_ far out of its way to return the Chicago contingent to Sault-Ste.-Marie. No sooner do our boots hit the dock than Ray—gravel-voiced with exhaustion—declares to Lt. Welsh that he’s finding a hotel and driving his car home “When I damn well wake up; if I’m not back in a week, send out a search party.” Without waiting for permission or counter-orders, he stumbles off into the twilight. I fall silently into step beside him.

Ray’s city-dweller instincts, or else blind luck, locate a hotel within ten minutes. It’s fancier than I would normally choose, aimed at tourists and business travelers, but Ray slogs right up to the reception desk without breaking stride. When the clerk asks for his credit card, I lay down several damp but still legal Canadian bills. The clerk gives us a suspicious look but takes the money and hands us each a key-card.

By unspoken consent, Ray takes the first shower. Just as I’m beginning to wonder whether he’s fallen asleep on his feet in there, the water shuts off. He emerges clad only in a towel, with his hair plastered flat over his forehead. My heart aches, suddenly, at the sight. He looks so young, so vulnerable. I realize I’ve only ever seen him with his hair combed flat this way when his life was in danger. Running to me for asylum. Moments away from drowning.

Shuffling past me like a zombie, he suddenly raises his head to flash me a startling grin. My answering smile feels like it comes from my whole body at once.

By the time I finish my own brisk shower, Ray is already fast asleep on one of the beds, facedown on top of the covers, still wearing his towel.

The room is pleasantly warm, but Ray has no body fat to speak of and has been chilled, sleepless and taxed to his physical limits for the past two days. He barely stirs as I retrieve the towel and maneuver him under the covers. I perch on the side of the bed, my eyes fixed on my partner’s profile while my stomach churns with the terror I never feel until after danger has passed. Ray is here. Not dead. Not hurt. Not gone. Not going.

It isn’t that I have no intuition of my own, no matter what Ray might say in the heat of frustration. It isn’t even that I don’t use or value it. Ray’s accusation in the submersible is far nearer the bull’s-eye: I am too slow to trust him as I’d have him trust me. That was what nearly destroyed us; what I must guard against in future. When we’re in tune, it feels almost as though we share a single will across our separate bodies, but that doesn’t mean that Ray is an extension of my will. _I_ am an extension of _ours_.

I made the same mistake with Ray Vecchio, who didn’t have the words to make me understand my failing. Ray Kowalski shouted it in my face, and—eventually—I heard him.

I must remember this, too: if Ray has to explain to me in words what he’s feeling, it’s a sign that I’ve stopped listening to him.

Ray’s mouth is slightly open; each exhale is something between a sigh and a snore. I’ve never seen him so still, so peaceful. After a moment, I realize that my own breathing has fallen into sync with his. My eyelids droop as my own weariness drags at me like an undertow.

The room has two beds. I return both towels to the bathroom and crawl under the covers beside Ray.

When I wake, Ray is wrapped around me with his face buried in my armpit, one arm flung across my waist.

I’m not aware of moving, but something wakes him. He groans; then the sound rises in pitch, becoming a surprised query. His stubble scrapes my shoulder as he turns his head.

“Fraser, what th’Hell?” he slurs, his voice morning-cranky, but his body stays molded to mine like a blanket. When I wrap my free arm around him, he snuggles closer with a contented grunt.

“Shh,” I caution him, but it’s unnecessary: his lips begin to delicately explore my collarbone while his hand slides over my inner thigh. My heart skips, accelerates—and Ray chuckles against the pulse-point at the base of my throat.

He lifts his head. His eyes meet mine, and then his mouth covers mine; his tongue enters me as my breath entered him yesterday. This time, he doesn’t ask if anything has changed between us. It has, and it hasn’t, and we both understand without any need for words.


End file.
